April 24th
by Mrs Eyre
Summary: A fine spring day and something momentous is happening. - AUTHOR'S NOTE ADDED
1. Default Chapter

April 24th  
I don't know how long this has been going on. I could ask but, really, what difference does it make? I'm trapped here. It's not new, this situation; how many countless millions of women have found themselves here, how many of them in this very room? Doesn't matter. This is my turn, this is me and I don't know what I'm doing any more.  
  
He's calm it seems, and that's good because I'm beyond calm now, out the other side into inert. If I can find his eyes and hold his gaze it helps a little.  
  
It's a shock all this. No-one can prepare you for it. I've known other women who have gone through this, who have given me knowing smiles when I shrug and say we'll be different. Now it hits me again, this pain, and I think that I should like to die. And I'm angry. An image of us, of me and him, in his bed, hits me, and I'm angry because of the time we wasted, and now I'm dying and oh, those lost opportunities, except look where it got me in the end. He's speaking and it seems that I must listen.  
  
"You're doing so well."  
  
"I'm not actually doing anything, it's being done to me, and I could really do without you patronising me, you bastard." He blinks, raises his eyebrows a fraction and glances at the hard faced woman who is the only other person in the room. And here she goes again, her hand shoved between my legs. I want to kill her.  
  
"Well, I think we're ready to do some hard work here. Let's sit you up a little."  
  
"Don't touch me! I can't move, I won't move!"  
  
He ignores me, moves behind me and I panic a little when I can't see him.  
  
"Don't!"  
  
"Ssshhh." His hands are under my arms; he lifts and pulls in one strong movement, propping me up. Well, they're right, it is better. But I'm not going to say so.  
  
He's seen this before, the ugliness of it, faces red with effort, voices hoarse with straining, but this is me and in the moments between the pains I think that I don't want him to see me like this. But he finds my eyes again, wipes the sweat and tears from them, kisses my forehead.  
  
"Make it stop. I can't do this, I want to go home."  
  
"Soon, very soon."  
  
And here we go again. I'm aware that his wedding ring is being crushed into his fingers, and although he doesn't flinch I see him flex them when I let go. It's a fine day out there, a fine spring day and it's strange because I always thought of this happening at night. Out there people are working, shopping, doing laundry, catching buses, all unaware that I'm being tortured in here.  
  
"This is a nightmare"  
  
"Stop now, stop now, stop now."  
  
The stinging and burning is almost worse than what has gone before. I'm aware that my eyes are open very wide.  
  
"Oh . . . oh . . . "  
  
His eyes don't leave mine.  
  
"One more and we're done" she calls, her voice muffled from between my legs. I almost laugh at that. Almost. "Here's the head - lots of dark hair. You want to look?" He shakes his head, still looking at me, nearly smiling now.  
  
"Come on, one last time ..." he urges, his hand holding mine.  
  
There is a whooshing sensation which I can almost hear; movement, activity and then a wet, warm, heaviness is laid on my chest.  
  
"You have a little girl! But not so little, eh?" The woman's face is not so hard now, she's smiling. "You want to cut the cord, dad?" He shakes his head again, looking from me to the crumpled red creature nestling on my chest. She makes a strange, creaking sound, like she's complaining, and he rests his face against the top of her head, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek. The woman is attending to things, I oblige with one more push for the afterbirth, and she wraps up our daughter and hands her to him.  
  
"And who is it that we have here?"  
  
He's looking down at her still, and I can see it all in his head, the birthday parties, the Christmas trees, the little trips on the boat, and - oh, this is years and years ahead - the wedding day.  
  
"Jasna" he says, softly. "This is Jasna." 


	2. Author's note

Author's note:  
  
I think it possible that I have assumed that all readers will understand who Jasna is; for those who don't recognise the name, Jasna is the daughter lost by Luka in the shelling of the appartment in Vukovar. She died with her mother, Danijella (the narrator of this piece) and baby brother, Marko.  
  
And the usual disclaimers apply.  
  
Shellie 


End file.
